To Know
by imprint of a doe
Summary: She aspires to be the next Mrs Malfoy, in the sense that she wants to know everything about everyone in their social circle. She assumes she already does know. But, maybe, just maybe, she might be wrong about that.


I do not, have not, and will never own these characters. Nor do I own a Slytherin tie, despite my inherent longing for one.

-x-

**_To Know_**

-x-

'Please, Pans, just drop it.'

Pansy Parkinson stops to draw in a breath, eyeing the man slumping against the table across from her. His hair is tousled from where his hands have been carding through it, more so than usual. Her fingers itch to try out the one spell that might help to control the mess but she'd be Disarmed faster than she could blink.

'I'm not going to drop it, you know me better than that.'

He does, too, despite their differences when they were younger. Working together has definitely helped their friendship. That he could even dream of her letting this go shows that he obviously hasn't been paying as much attention to her as she has to him. Oblivious git.

'Pansy.' Harry looks up at her, beseechingly, and she smiles at him, twirling a ribbon out of her wand as she does so.

'Now, does this shade go with my hair or not?'

'Parkinson,' he warns, and now he's glaring at her ribbon as if it's bewitched to strangle him. It isn't yet, really, he shouldn't be so judgmental.

'Harry, I really need to know. The wedding is next week and I still don't think this is my best colour.'

'I maintain that I can't help you with that.'

'Honey, don't spout that bull at me. It's a yes or no question, simple. I'd think even you could answer it with your abysmal Gryffindor fashion sense.'

They both know he's reluctant to answer in the event that he's wrong, when she'll surely hex him until he's got tentacles emerging from places no tentacle should ever be.

He ends up agreeing that it's a flattering colour, though she personally thinks he's just saying this so she won't have a panic attack about needing to buy a new outfit. She appreciates that, she does, but if one snide comment from Daphne Greengrass comes her way the other witch won't be the only one paying for it.

Harry still seems confused by the entire ordeal, poor man, which honestly amuses and frustrates Pansy in equal measures.

'Do you still need to get dress robes?' she asks accusingly, and he shakes his head, groaning and waving for a butterbeer.

It's a Friday afternoon, humid and surprisingly bright outside, and they're in the window booth of her favorite Wizarding establishment in London. They've left the shop under Millie's supervision for their weekly two hour lunch, and Pansy knows the shop will be a complete mess when they return, as it always is. She doesn't mind tidying up too much, though, not anymore.

'No! Merlin, Pansy, I'm not that ill-prepared. I got my dress robes ages ago.' She stares at him, one eyebrow slowly on the rise, and he rolls his eyes. 'Look, ask Hermione if you have to.'

Her nose wrinkles because, even if she's befriended the most Gryffindor-ish Gryffindor of the lot, she still doesn't get on with the Brain. Probably never will, though she can acknowledge that the Brain is just as stubborn as she herself is and won't give up on her attempts. Of course, it doesn't help that Pansy is nearly a part of that group now.

It's all Blaise's fault.

No, no, before Blaise, it's all Harry's fault.

Trust it to be because of their Saviour.

Harry, who brought up an idea she approved of, who agreed to work with her, who kept bringing Ginevra Weasley around to help set up while Pansy herself brought Blaise. And then the two helpers had to discover they were attracted to one another, and Pansy and Harry had to walk in on a squick-worthy moment that had absolutely cemented their friendship in queasiness. Ginny and Blaise are to be married in a week now, and the old Slytherin and Gryffindor circles from their school days are slowly merging.

It's nearly disgusting. At least their kids will be gorgeous. Now Pansy just has to find someone she can marry so her own kids will be even more so. She is not letting Blaise win this round.

'I don't trust Granger's judgment when it comes to dress robes,' she sniffs. Which is, only partially, a lie, because she really has looked stunning the few occasions Pansy has seen her in formal wear.

'Too bad,' Harry shrugs, and he smirks at her. She has to smile back, pleased, because that smirk is a recent development from hanging out with ex-Slytherins. He would have been a natural had he been sorted into their house in school.

'You're sure? I promise it'd just be a few hours, Harry…'

'That's a blatant mistruth, Pansy Parkinson. No. That's final. You can curse me next week if they're not to your approval, but leave off until then, will you?'

'But, Harry, imagine if you show up looking like... Mundungus Fletcher, for instance, and there's an attractive person at the wedding with their eye on you… Wouldn't you want to dress up just in case?' she prods.

And yes, she does have ulterior motives. What kind of woman would she be if she didn't?

'Pansy.'

Back to the beginning once more. He'll give in. Eventually.

-x-

It's… a nice avenue for the wedding, in all honesty. Blaise's mother definitely knows how best to use the wealth she inherited from all those dead husbands. The grounds are pretty, the tent is gorgeous, the gardens are exquisite. And, yes, she can admit it, the bride and groom are pretty damn beautiful themselves. Life is so unfair.

Hey, at least she has the bride's ex-boyfriend on her arm. She'd take more pride in that if said ex-boyfriend were actually her current boyfriend rather than her probably-gay-co-owner-friend. Alas, her lot in life has rarely been what she wished.

'Harry, pay attention. See, the blonde over there, standing with… is that Theo? Huh. He looks good, don't you think? You remember Theodore Nott? Come on, let's go mingle…'

Harry really does look bored, chagrined, but being her date is tough work. At least he's presentable in dress robes of the darkest blue, complimentary to the cream she herself is wearing. She's still highly miffed that she's not a member of the wedding party, but she makes up for it with the opportunities to mill around through the wedding guests

Theo really is looking well, though.

She's pleasantly surprised to finally catch sight of Draco, who is hiding behind his mother. She smirks at the sight—at least he's here, despite the fight he and Blaise had three weeks ago. Harry doesn't notice him, bemused as he is by the horrendous dress Astoria Greengrass is wearing—it really is horrendous, it has to be what Harry's staring at—and Pansy is grateful for this one moment. Now isn't the time, not yet.

Pansy guides Harry to their seats when the ceremony is about to start. She snickers as the bridesmaids and groomsmen walk down the aisle; the couples are quite amusing. Granger doesn't look too happy to be on Nott's arm, but Ron is halfway between laughing and taking Nott's place if he even glances to his left.

It's when Draco walks out with Luna Lovegood on his arm, though, that Pansy loses it. She buries her face against Harry's shoulder to muffle her laughter, because Draco's _face_, and, Salazar, she'll never get over this, ever. Harry nudges her shoulder, as if that will do anything, and she manages to catch her breath when the wedding march starts. She just… will have to avoid looking at either of the lead couple.

It's a lovely ceremony, it is, even if she can't prevent herself from giggling at the oddest times. Surely the witch behind her thinks she's on something. Or maybe she's one of those abominable women who fall apart at weddings because they're not there yet.

No. She refuses to be one of those women. She's laughing because, Merlin, it's Loony Lovegood and Draco Malfoy. It's as unlikely to see them together like this as it is for Pansy to drop her clothes in the middle of the Ministry.

Or so she tells herself. She might have to avoid getting drunk later just in case.

After the bonding has been completed and the reception has moved to the tent in the gardens, Pansy leads Harry through the crowd. She hasn't let go of him yet, and she knows he's reaching his limit. As much as he loves her, she supposes she _can_ be slightly overbearing. She only has one more goal, though, and then he'll be free to go sit down in a corner as he so clearly wants to.

'One more, one more,' she urges, and then she's reaching out, having timed it perfectly if she does say so, and snagging one of Draco's pale grey sleeves.

Her oldest friend scowls at her and tugs it away, swatting her hands off. 'You're going to make it wrinkle,' he accuses, and she smiles at him.

'Draco, how long has it been since you've seen Harry, hmm?' She pushes Harry forward—maybe she used too much force, or maybe he's just all too eager—and Harry stumbles, reaching out as if to grab Draco for balance. Draco's face really is all too open sometimes, she thinks, trying not to laugh. The mask he was trained to wear never really quite fits him; it falls off too often. But then again, she likes him like that, and most other people do as well.

'Potter.' Draco hesitates, shifts awkwardly, thrusts his hand out as Pansy stares at him. 'Er, you look… well.'

Harry shakes the offered hand, suspicion on his face that Pansy hasn't seen for months on end. Draco always has been able to ruffle his feathers, so to speak. What other reason would she make absolutely sure they ended up around one another?

'Ma—Draco. It's… good to see you. I presume you're doing alright?'

And, yes, watching Draco's face really is too good right now, and how she wishes she had a camera. She wants to wave the picture under his nose when she scolds him for showing how surprised he is by Harry's civility. It's rude, doesn't he know? But of course, not like he can help it, and she has to glance away for just a moment so she doesn't lose it.

'Er, yes, quite. You work with Pansy now, yes, in the new wand shop in London?' Ah, so Draco does listen when she talks about Harry. That's encouraging.

Harry nods, rocking back on his heels. She's trained him well, though—he stays in place to finish the conversation. Maybe Gryffindors are better for pets. Not that Harry is a pet, per se—he'd make her bald for a day if he got wind of that, and however much she might think confidence helped to pull something off, even she couldn't do without her hair. Most likely. It's not something she's eager to try, at the very least.

She quickly finds herself bored of the small talk—yes, they're capable of it, her question is answered, and now the next step—'Harry, let's get back to our table, yes? It was a pleasure seeing you, Draco, have a lovely evening!' She's pulling Harry along with her, and he's stumbling, and Draco is staring after them, blinking, and oh she can't wait for a moment alone to laugh like her lungs are collapsing.

-x-

Blaise sidles up to her sometime later, when Harry has Ginny out on the dance floor. 'Seen our prince any time recently?'

'Ah, you mean Draco? He's hiding, last time I checked. Whatever did you do to make him so nervous around you?' She's impressed, really—usually, Draco is the one with the upper hand in that friendship, and if Blaise has finally found a way to get even… Maybe she wants in as well.

'Not much, really. I have no idea why he's avoiding me, and Ginny, and most of the wedding guests, actually… Believe me, if I were responsible, I would be enjoying it a lot more. I might have postponed the wedding or stepped it up only to see him squirm more.' Blaise grins, and she has to snicker with him. 'You talked to him though?'

'Only for about five minutes earlier. I cornered him with Harry and then we walked off and left him standing there. His eyes really are getting a little too daring. He's definitely been off sex for a while, hasn't he?' she muses.

She's sure she's right—after all, she knows Draco. Yes, even that way, much as she is reluctant to admit it. Sure, there's prestige in the name, but… the experience could have been much better. Even now she can blush slightly when asked about her first time, and Pansy doesn't usually blush.

Blaise shrugs. 'Not like he talks about it much, but you can usually tell. When do you think Narcissa gets tired of playing the "I'm straight" game with him and calls him out on it?'

Pansy snorts and slaps Blaise in the stomach. Snorting is frowned upon. Well. So people say. She wouldn't know, because she _rarely_ snorts. Right. Rarely. 'Probably whenever she sees Draco tonight and notices his eyes are passing over every arse and analysing.'

They try not to draw attention to their laughter, especially when Narcissa meets their eyes from across the dance floor and smiles knowingly. Mrs Malfoy is definitely in charge of any and all goings on in their circle—it doesn't surprise them that she probably knows the topic of their gossip even though she can't possibly hear it.

'Finally!' Blaise darts away from her, and then he's out on the dance floor with a flushed Draco. Pansy, delighted, watches the annoyance on Draco's face and—_oh_.

He's guilty of something, she knows it, can see it in the way his fingers are gripping Blaise's robes, his eyes darting away.

It's. Oh. She doesn't know. Why doesn't she know? The bastard is keeping secrets. She's going to castrate him in the most painful way possible. Maybe with a rusty knife, the old Muggle way.  
>Teach him to keep secrets and gossip from her, that will.<p>

Would also probably deprive her of godchildren from that side, but. Maybe she's willing to sacrifice that anyway.

She just… she needs to get the upper hand. She wants to shock him with her knowledge. Honestly. He can't think he'll get away with this, not really.

Sniffing disdainfully in his direction, she slips through the crowd. She's going to find Narcissa.

-x-

She doesn't know whether to be surprised that Harry is at Narcissa's table or not. Sure, they're civil now and all, but. It's strange, odd. Hmm. Does Harry look guilty? But no, because she would notice. She works with the man every day, after all. He can't hide anything from her, not from Pansy, not Harry.

She settles between them, announcing her presence, which she could have done more tactfully. But really, it's Draco's fault for keeping secrets and annoying her to this point. 'Narcissa, how have you been?'

Draco's mother has always been amused by her—well, that's a lie. Pansy is pretty sure she was barely tolerated during her school years, but now she and Narcissa definitely get on. It probably happened sometime after Pansy realised she wasn't going to marry Draco, not for anything.

'Well, Pansy. And yourself? Mr Potter was just telling me how successful the shop has been as of late. He's neglecting to mention his personal life.' And there it is, the first carefully baited hook.

'We're not dating, if that's what you're wondering, each other nor any significant other.' Narcissa smiles at her for picking up on the real question, which Harry has no doubt missed, judging by the look on the poor sod's face. 'Speaking of, though, is Draco?'

Narcissa lets a slight frown cross her face as she turns, her gaze immediately pinning itself to her son. Pansy is impressed with her speed and accuracy. She hopes that someday, when she is in Narcissa's place at the top of the social order, she will have the same skills.

'I'm not sure, to be honest. He acts as if he might be but is hiding it. Which, I'm sure, means that it's a man. Why he doesn't just _tell us_… Ah, but my son believes himself brilliant and infallible, of course, as well as suited to a _private life_.'

The way she says 'private life' amuses Pansy—she spits it out like it's nearly as offensive as Mrs Greengrass' new garden hat. Why the woman thought she could get away with wearing it to a Weasley wedding…

Pansy looks at Harry, who is watching the Malfoy matriarch with some interest. 'Shouldn't parts of his life be private, though?'

Both women look at him pityingly. Pansy still hasn't managed to teach him that, to certain women, most things are not private, especially in the upper pure-blood circles. How does he think she knows everything about every family that enters Potter & Parkinson's Wands? Honestly.

'His love life should at least be a topic of discussion over family dinner,' Narcissa disagrees. 'What else have we to talk of without arguing like rabble?'

'And if his choice in a lover made you angry? What if he was avoiding it because he feared it would lead to such degeneration?'

Pansy looks at him again, and this time she stares. Considering.

But, really, she would _know._ It _can't_ be Harry and Draco, because… well, Harry hasn't even let it slip that he's gay yet, though she thinks it's only a matter of time before he gets fed up with the dates she sets up for him. And besides, she would probably know if her two friends were interested in one another. She's _been_ the interested party where Draco is concerned—if she doesn't remember how he behaved, then someone has modified her memory.

As far as Harry's interest goes, she used to take great pleasure making fun of his bumbling attempts at romance in their school days. She recalls teasing Cho Chang fairly viciously for going out with Potter. The thought nearly makes her smirk. She's certain he wouldn't be able to hide it, what with the blushing and awkwardness that would surely show up during his lie.

Narcissa shakes her head. 'He knows I wouldn't turn from him, and his father won't either. Whatever you once believed—or perhaps still believe—about us Malfoys, Mr Potter, we care for one another deeply. Draco is aware that he may discuss whatever he pleases with us.'

Harry blinks at her, a flush creeping up to his cheeks, and ducks his head. 'I apologise for prying, Mrs Malfoy. It is not my place.'

'Ah, but isn't it?'

Pansy slaps a hand over her mouth to contain yet another snort, because Harry didn't hear that and Narcissa is smirking very slightly and staring at the top of his head. Perhaps she has guessed wrong, or perhaps Narcissa is just testing the waters. Either way, Pansy _almost_ wishes she and Draco _had_ ended up together, if only because Narcissa really would be the best mother-in-law a woman could ever wish for.

She and Harry leave the table soon after, and it's interesting to say the least, because most of the guests are known from their school days. They take turns leading each other through the social dance. Some people seem rather surprised to see them so close together, and Pansy must admit that, yes, she very much wanted to turn him over to the Dark Lord on that fateful day. It amuses her now, how she'd been, wanting to trade in what might have been their only hope for a decent future, but then again she had been young, petty, and slightly dull—though, at least her insults were sometimes pretty sharp. Or so she likes to think. They're much better now.

Harry gets involved in Quidditch talk halfway through the guests, arguing good naturedly with Adrian Pucey, one of the only fair Slytherin players during their time. Weasleys are joining left and right, and for Pansy, all this talk of sport at a wedding is just not on. She departs, knowing Harry is well enough, and once again sets about finding Draco. She's going to have a little chat with him, get some answers.

He's tricky to catch, of course. He's built half of his life on going unseen, and it shows, especially when he probably knows very well that she's searching for him. It always was most bothersome when she really wanted Draco around and he was missing.

It's Lovegood, ironically, who points her in the right direction, and Pansy catches Draco lying on a bench next to Arabella Zabini's treasured fountain. She pushes his feet of the end and sits, smiling at him while he curses and sits up.

'I think you're avoiding me, which means you've been hiding stuff. I don't like it when you hide things from me, Draco.' He grimaces and edges away from her, eyeing her for her wand. Ah, but he's been on the receiving end of those hexes far too often. Her smile turns fond for a moment before it drops. 'So help me, Malfoy, if you don't tell me who you're seeing, you're going to regret it. I know how much you hate being a ginger.'

'Don't you fucking dare, Pansy. You'll just be starting a war you know you can't win.'

She sighs. She's learned a lot from hanging around with Gryffindors, much as that might seem paradoxical. This time, she feels she might have a chance, though the tragic loss of her favourite dress robes had rather stung last round.

'Draco.' Pansy levels that stare at him, the one he usually can't stand to meet. True to form, he glances away after just seconds, smoothing his palms over his robes. 'You can tell me, you know. I don't want to know_ just_ so I can gossip about it. Though, I won't lie—that will probably inevitably happen.'

He laughs slightly, and of course he would, because, really, she's trying to get him to relax. 'Pansy, it's nothing, I promise. When or if it turns into something, I'll tell you.'

'I want to know now,' and she's not whinging, she's not. She hasn't whinged for years.

But he's not budging. It's odd, extremely so, and she's absolutely appalled when he deftly manoeuvres the conversation so that they're discussing the probable names of the future Weasley-Zabini children.

She leaves the wedding with many more questions than she had arrived with. She's smiling as she does so.

-x-

It's Wednesday when it happens.

Well, Wednesday five weeks after the wedding.

'Thank you, Miss Parkinson. Eight Galleons and twelve Sickles, you said?'

Pansy smiles and watches the little Smethwyck girl wave the wand around. Slight trails of shimmering light are left in its wake, a pale pink. It's not quite a common colour, but nor is it abnormal. Still, the colour is part of the appeal of Potter and Parkinson's Wands—most people are willing to pay slightly more in order to see the essence of their magic.

Pansy had been surprised when Potter first suggested it. It'd been… a delicate process, working it out. Especially because they hadn't been on the best of terms, precisely, all those hours in the basement of Potter's house. It had really been an accident that actually brought it out the first time—they'd been fighting, so much so that it had escalated to wand work over the cauldrons and paperwork and elements of unfinished wands. When Pansy's test wand had shot out a burst of plum coloured light around them, they'd frozen—she hadn't said or thought any incantations, and yet the colour was still pulsing around them, deep and simultaneously bright.

That had, for all intents and purposes, been the beginning of their friendship. They'd been overjoyed, and when they continued to try, they'd gotten Harry's test wand to flare a deep blue. They'd switched wands, but the colours had remained the same—Pansy's plum mixing with the blue from Harry's side of the room.

Pansy is the only person, she knows, to have ever seen Harry's. He still uses the battered old holly wand he purchased from Ollivanders, and they haven't yet figured out how to make the changes to wands already bound together. Still, their wands are unique and beautiful in certain ways—it also makes it easier for the Ministry to track magic originating from their wands to the witch or wizard casting it rather than just the wand.

The little girl's mother pays for the wand and they leave the shop. Millie steps forward to start boxing up the wands that had rejected the girl's magical signature while Pansy writes it down in the ledger. 'I'm going to Gringott's to drop this morning's earnings off. Take your lunch break now, Millie, yeah?'

She steps into the back and watches as Harry carefully spells the powdered dragon scales into the center of the new wand, his free hand swirling the magic around him that will make the wand one of _theirs_. 'I'll be back in half an hour or so. Want a sandwich or something? I'm not letting you get ice cream again.'

Harry doesn't look up or speak, just shakes his head, and she closes the door quietly behind her as she leaves. He gets like this, sometimes, so lost in the wand-making. He was curious about them after the war, understandably so from the stories she was told once they were friends. Now, he just enjoys it, and who is she to disrupt him? He'll eat later though, or he'll have to listen to yet another lecture, and she knows how much he hates lectures. Probably because of his friendship with the Brain.

She thinks she spots the pale blond she well knows as Draco's hair colour, but when she looks again she's mistaken. It's the gold glinting off a Snitch on display in Quality Quidditch Supplies. Her errand at Gringott's doesn't take too long—the goblins are well used to her ilk, and she knows just how to handle them. She grabs lunch with Dean Thomas, flirting over the counter while he gets her meal ready, as she does at least once a week. And then she returns to the shop.

Pansy doesn't know whether to regret going in the back way or not. She steps into the backroom, navigates around the corner, and stares at her feet as a wand slowly rolls to tap against her point boot. Why is there a wand on the ground? Harry. Oh, Salazar, he never lets them touch the ground, but here it is, lying there. She looks up, heart pounding, and yes, maybe she's worried, she's allowed to be worried—oh.

Harry has Draco pressed up against the workbench, all the supplies shoved across the surface, and—holy shit, why didn't Draco ever kiss _her_ like that?

She. They. How.

She blinks at them.

Why is she staring? Oh, Salazar, because she can't fucking help it and how far are they going and is that—?

She should have _known_, for fuck's sake, it should have been more than obvious. _How_ weren't they more _obvious_… and she's watching, just watching, because Harry's hand is most definitely wrapped around Draco's neck. Since when have his fingers been such a turn on? She's never noticed before.

Draco had completely and totally lied to her. He can't have gone from 'nothing's happening but it might' to… _this_… in five mere weeks, because—well, he and Harry are entirely too close and too personal and too much in contact with one another for a five week thing. That's moving too fast, and honestly, it had taken him weeks just to ask her to the damn Yule Ball. Not that this Draco is the same Draco he once was. It's still just not quite computing.

But the sounds they're making—she has to be happy for them, really, because it must be good. They sound like a wizarding pornography and in all honesty they're just kissing.

No. She takes that back as she presses her hands over her mouth. Draco's leg is wrapped around Harry's hips, pulling him forward, and if only her angle wasn't so bad she could probably see just how closely they're pressed up against each other. So, she moves, just slightly. And, oh, is she being a Slytherin woman now.

'Harry.'

Is that Draco's voice? It's making parts of her perk up and take notice, parts of her that declared Draco off limits after their experiment with sex that had completely failed. Because this Draco? This Draco knows his sex; at least, that's what his voice is saying.

When did he learn sex? When did Harry and him learn sex together? When did this thing start and when—? Her questions aren't going to be answered now, that's for certain.

Harry gasps, his lips breaking away from Draco's to move along the pointed jaw-line, and one of his hands is yanking at the clasp of Draco's robes, is pushing them back off his shoulders. Draco lets them fall and reaches up to grab Harry's collar, holding him still, biting gently at his collarbone.

She hasn't moved. She really doesn't think she's capable of it. Honestly, they just _pulse_ with sex appeal and lust. They way they're moving, the way they're touching each other and breathing—

'Holy fuck.'

They jump apart, eyes wide—Draco nearly falls off the work bench—and she lets her hands fall from her lips, silently cursing herself. They hadn't done any good, apparently, since she'd spoken through them anyway.

'I'm sorry,' she squeaks, staring back at them. Draco's trousers are undone—how had she missed that progression?—and there's a rather dark bite mark on Harry's neck. They're, understandably, shocked.

As she had been walking in, she reminds herself, and she's back.

'I leave you alone for half an hour, Harry… honestly. You could have told me you needed longer,' she simpers at them. They gape at her as she saunters into the front of the shop, smirking all over her face. Oh, but this is good.

-x-

'Look, Pansy…'

'Don't want to hear it. I heard quite enough, I should think.'

That stops them. She might cringe, might, because—'Wait, exactly how long were you standing there, Parkinson?' Draco sounds a little intimidating, she admits it.

'Long enough,' she answers vaguely, scratching a quill through a botched bit in the ledger. She can't look at them. She doesn't know when that particular side effect will go away. It's odd enough to entertain the thought of Harry and Draco together, but _seeing_ it the way she had… It's like they had _wanted_ to be caught, it wasn't her fault she had walked into her own shop. It was the shock that made her stand in place, she swears it.

A flare of silver light and she knows Draco's got his wand out and pointed at her, can hear Harry telling him to put it down. She wants to laugh, she does.

'Pansy, er… you won't happen to tell anyone about this?' Harry sounds nervous, embarrassed. As he should be.

Hmm. She swings around in the stool—she can look at them again, that hadn't lasted long—and stares at them. 'Why were you hiding it in the first place? I might keep my mouth shut if you can make it convincing.'

Another chance to encourage Harry's Slytherin side, that's all.

He stares at her for a moment and then looks at Draco. There's a foot of awkward space between them. She's mildly apologetic for that. 'Would you believe me if I said we didn't want the pressure of the public affecting our—er, whatever this is?'

She lifts an eyebrow. 'Whatever this is?' she repeats. 'And, what exactly is "whatever this is," then?'

Draco huffs—oh, and he's pouting, wonderful—and snaps at her. 'Pansy, you can keep this as blackmail material if you want. It's better that way.'

'Ah, but only if you tell me the whole truth, Draco. It's about time.' Pansy isn't nearly purring at them. She's not_ that_ happy with this development. Benefits all around—blackmail, a lead in to their porno, and she supposes she'll toss in happiness for those two idiots as well.

And Harry. Oh, Harry, what a Gryffindor, because he _will_ tell the whole truth, and he does, and, well, she refuses to admit she might swoon, just a little, because damn it, he's gay and with Draco. If she knows Draco at all, moving in on what he sees as _his_ is still quite the wrong option. Plus, well… it really is just Harry. And he's a sap, if the way Draco is rolling his eyes is any indication. He might just be playing it up to get her sympathy.

It might just be working.

'Fine. Draco, I'm holding this over your head, you understand?'

He looks at her then, all smoky grey eyes, and—well, she might just be fucked. 'Oh, but Pansy… If you let this slip, I might just have to mention how long you watched before you finally said something. Five minutes or so, wasn't it?'

And, yes, well, he can still win these rounds, it appears, because it really will damage the shop's reputation if it gets out that one of its owners if having sex in the back room and the other is watching. She inclines her head—nothing if not gracefully admitting defeat—and sighs. She has to think about this.

Pansy brightens at the prospect, smirks to herself, and turns back around in her stool, leaving them to return to the back of the shop and carry on. She's got plans to work out.

-x-

author's notes:

As happens with most of what I finish, I had no idea what was happening in this when I started or  
>during much of the writing process. Most of what I figured out as I wrote can<br>be credited to the help of MentalistECBM, as is quite the common occurrence now.  
>I thank her profusely for her input.<p>

Why Pansy decided to tell the story, I'm not fairly certain,  
>but it was entertaining to attempt it from her perspective and mind. I enjoyed<br>the experience.

~imprint of a doe


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